


brave enough to love you

by kevystel, xyai



Series: have you heard there's a rumour in st. petersburg [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Domestic, Future Fic, Gen, Illustrated, Introspection, M/M, i love the russian skaters with my whole heart, yuuri learns how to give emotional support and worries about it for over 5k words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-13 03:28:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9104674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kevystel/pseuds/kevystel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/xyai/pseuds/xyai
Summary: ‘Hello, Katsuki-Nikiforov household,’ Yuuri says on reflex, and tries to ignore the way Viktor’s face lights up from all the way across the living room. ‘Who’s speaking?’‘Tell Vitya I’m going to kick his ass at Worlds!’‘He can hear y —’‘Davai,’ yells Viktor.Yuuri settles into his new life in St. Petersburg.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fireblazie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireblazie/gifts), [aubreyli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aubreyli/gifts), [kuronekonya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuronekonya/gifts).



> art collab with the incredibly talented [xyai](http://xyai.tumblr.com/)!! this fic is also for [fireblazie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireblazie) who wanted viktor & yuuri & yurio doing ballet in lilia’s studio, and [aubreyli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aubreyli/pseuds/aubreyli) because big parts of this came about from some very Memorable conversations, and [kuronekonya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuronekonya/pseuds/kuronekonya) who commented on ‘around you the world is greener’ that they wanted more stuff like that ❤ (this is a series now and it is your fault)
> 
> [deep breath] whew
> 
> title from [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tOmc9uG1Ndg)

The girl behind the counter looks at Yuuri like he’s some kind of serene and captivating bird, and gentles her English for him. Yuuri takes a few seconds longer than he should to sift out his payment, fumbling with the unfamiliar currency, and cringes all the while. It’s early morning and the tops of the St. Petersburg buildings are a vivid yellow-gold — the sky a deep watercolour blue, cut with lacy curling street-lights just beginning to dim. He feels small and lost, and oddly vulnerable — in a way he hasn’t felt since his college days — here in Russia where there is a surplus of tall fair-haired people. Only when he takes to the ice does he feel as powerful as he knows he is.

The city rumbles beneath him. He carries the takeaway cups of steaming coffee back to their apartment across the street, and sheds his shoes at the door, and then — most of his clothes, come to think of it. Yuuri will never stop being delighted by the heated floors in the apartment. The extravagant _space_ of Viktor’s home is no surprise to Yuuri, Yuuri who has grown up in the sweltering vibrance of his family inn packed with customers and thick with humid heat. Viktor carries himself with a kind of old-money delicacy. Yuuri slides into the bedroom, alight now in the heavy scent of freshly brewed coffee and the memory of Viktor’s cologne. He puts their coffees down on the nightstand and scrambles back into bed, nuzzling into Viktor’s warmth.

Viktor shifts, blinks up at him drowsily, and mumbles a half-intelligible Russian greeting before Viktor’s brain remembers to translate it into Japanese. Yuuri noses at the line of Viktor’s collarbone. He’s listened to Viktor speak in countless interviews as a child, of course, but it’s a whole other experience hearing Viktor’s voice in person. And he certainly never expected Viktor to… smell… like _that_. Heady, liquid warmth coils in Yuuri’s gut. He pushes his face into the hollow left by Makkachin’s head on the covers, as Makkachin sleepily moves aside to make room for Yuuri.

‘Morning,’ Yuuri murmurs in Japanese, before slipping into English. Sometimes they run out of vocabulary while they’re speaking to each other, since neither of them are using their first language. Clearly the solution is to just use the original words in Russian or Japanese and explain their meanings through demonstrative gestures. This is how Viktor learned to say _kiss me_ in Japanese with flawless pronunciation before he could master full sentences. When they have lengthy conversations in public, nobody else understands them. ‘Nice weather. Bought coffee.’

‘Mmm,’ replies Viktor, patting blindly towards the nightstand behind him with his eyes closed. Yuuri catches his hand and guides it to one of the coffee cups before he knocks something over. Viktor’s apartment is austere and full of designer furniture. It is also much tidier now that Yuuri has gone through all the rooms like a whirlwind, having discovered at least three of Viktor’s gold medals buried underneath month-old newspapers. Yuuri sweeps and vacuums the carpet, which lets him practise his arabesques under cover of the vacuum cleaner’s roaring. Viktor cooks, does laundry on alternate days, and takes out the trash. Yurio has made the _why don’t you throw yourself out too while you’re at it?_ joke more times than Yuuri can count. ‘Thank you. Cold outside?’

‘Yes,’ Yuuri admits, lips against Viktor’s throat. The high points of Viktor’s cheekbones catch, softly, the grey light now beginning to seep through the curtains. He’s really very devastating. Sometimes Yuuri catches sight of the gold band on his right ring finger, and remembers the Viktor posters gathering dust in his cupboard in Hasetsu, and thinks: _how did I do this?_ ‘But I tend to get cold when it’s below… oh, eighteen degrees?’

Viktor’s thick eyelashes brush Yuuri’s temple as he turns his head to look at Yuuri more clearly, pushing himself up on one elbow. ‘Fahrenheit?’

‘Celsius.’

There’s a long pause. ‘I will protect you,’ says Viktor very firmly, wrapping his arms tighter around Yuuri. He smells of spices and sleep-heat and the brand of body wash in their upstairs bathroom which Yuuri has never seen before. His nose, which is sharp and invariably icy, jams into the hollow between Yuuri’s neck and shoulder. Yuuri yelps and swats him away.

Yuuri has learned many new things about his coach-fiancé, here, surrounded by their rink family and wilting a little under Yakov’s impassive gaze. Mila’s got the loosest tongue, although Yuuri knows she gets her facts from Georgi. Trivia that even Viktor’s most dedicated international fans — Yuuri should know — haven’t heard about. He used women’s skates for a long time, while Yakov stubbornly turned a blind eye and pretended not to notice the Russian Skating Federation’s outrage. His passive-aggressive Twitter exchanges with said RSF are legendary. (Yuuri didn’t know this because he can’t understand Russian. He did wonder why Viktor tweeted a photo of the English-language website defining ice dance and pair skating as performed by a man and a woman — captioned only with a smiley face emoji — the day after their exhibition skate, however.) His first crush was Stéphane Lambiel, which is the only thing Viktor has ever done that Yurio approves of. His complexion, surprisingly, wasn’t always this flawless; his makeup skills, on the other hand, _were_. From the ages of sixteen to eighteen, he got hit on approximately as often when he could pass as a girl as when he was presenting as a boy, by different sets of people.

Also, he used to skate Yuuri’s past programs to cool down after practice.

‘Yes, I hated them,’ says Viktor blithely. He puts an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders and guides him off the rink. To hear Mila tell it, Yurio spent the whole of 2015 yelling at Viktor to stop pining and Yakov spent it using a rapidly fading handkerchief to mop his pate. ‘You should have fired your choreographer, Yuuri!’

Yuuri whimpers.

Mila sits on the floor with her back to the lockers to unlace her skates, and gives Yuuri a reassuring smile. Yuuri’s not sure why the Russian skaters are so eager to regale him with stories of Viktor Nikiforov, 2003–2015 era. Viktor has been very kind about not releasing any of the embarrassing Yuuri anecdotes he has. He usually stands a little apart from the gossip in the locker room, sipping a sports drink from a bottle, his smile enigmatic and patient.

Yuuri hates it.

Nowadays, he’s taken to slipping an arm through Viktor’s and leaning up for a brief kiss before going on the ice. This comforts them both. Yuuri’s hair is long enough now that he has to catch up the ends in an elastic band before he skates, and occasionally — on his early morning coffee runs, in quiet hours on the metro — he finds people stealing second and third glances. Because Yuuri, unlike Viktor, is approachable. Because something about Yuuri, apparently, is soft and warm and inviting. Yuuri has learned to shut down any attempts very quickly. He’s terrified of the day Viktor will swoop in to rescue him, all wide delighted smile and _yes, my fiancé is beautiful, don’t you think?_ and blow the poor stranger backwards with the sheer force of his presence and physical charm.

Yuuri thinks he is the least intimidating person on the planet. Countless young Japanese skaters have told him they disagree. According to Georgi, they’ve started approaching Viktor instead to ask for Yuuri’s autograph. Yuuri really does not know what to do with this information.

‘If I hear you describing yourself as a dime-a-dozen figure skater one more time, Katsuki Yuuri,’ says Yakov, ‘I will send you back to Japan. Vitya doesn’t need to waste his time on mediocre skaters and neither do I.’

Yuuri gulps. ‘I’ll work harder!’

* * *

There’s a tale about the Brazilian fan who caught Viktor as he was running late for his flight. There wasn’t time for an autograph or a photo; he asked for her Instagram username, she shouted it to him as he sprinted through the doors of the departure lounge, he got on the plane, promptly took a selfie, uploaded it to Instagram and tagged her in it. Yuuri is never going to be able to top that.

Georgi tells him everyone’s goal is to avoid giving their fans a “you should never meet your heroes” story to tell on some obscure Reddit thread. Yuuri thinks that as far as he’s anybody’s hero, he’s just been avoiding them all his life, period.

‘Yura, can you get Yakov to give us the day off?’

‘I don’t think I have that much sway with Yakov.’

‘Please. You bowed to him once and he cried,’ snorts Yurio. ‘Time for you to start pulling your weight, katsudon.’

Yuuri hasn’t eaten katsudon in months and he misses it. He doesn’t dare let any hint of this homesickness slip to Viktor, since Viktor will comb St. Petersburg for the best katsudon to be found and give it all to Yuuri and none of it will taste the same. Yuuri sneezes. He zips up his black JSF jacket, tucking his gloved hands into his pockets. He doesn’t deserve to eat katsudon anyway; he hasn’t won a single gold medal so far.

Under Lilia’s tutelage Yuuri’s movements are becoming fiercer and slicker, sharper, especially now that the children in the novice division have developed a habit of chanting at him. ‘Would junior-world-champion-Japanese-national-champion-GPF-silver-medallist Katsuki Yuuri like to go for lunch? Is junior-world-champion-Japanese-national-champion-GPF-silver-medallist Katsuki Yuuri coming for practice tomorrow? Does junior-world —’

‘Please stop,’ says Yuuri, turning very bright red.

Viktor raises his eyebrows innocently. ‘ _I_ didn’t have anything to do with it. Try Mila…?’

In Lilia’s ballet studio, the floors are always sleekly polished and the windows pour in shafts of sunlight. Yuuri adores this place. He sweeps through the motions at Yurio’s side, arms raised in a perfect arc above his head, feet pointed and clean. Lilia calls out sharp corrections to the line of his outstretched legs, but her eyes are studying him closely. Paying attention to Yuuri straining to match Yurio’s adolescent flexibility, like she sees something in him worth noticing.

Beside them, Viktor burns in Yuuri’s peripheral vision. He’s a force so breathtaking it nearly bowls Yuuri over, his grace powerful, almost ferocious. They’ve skated side by side for a year but Yuuri has never seen Viktor do ballet. He’s not sure Viktor ever set foot in Minako’s studio. The sight leaves him vaguely petrified and a little bit turned on, which is generally the reaction Viktor elicits from a lot of people.

‘He’s too old to come back to skating,’ Yurio spits. He drapes himself over the barre, panting, as Yuuri hands him an unopened bottle of water. Then Yuuri stops to reconsider, takes back the water bottle and twists off the cap for Yurio. Yurio glares. ‘He’s going to land himself in the hospital, and I will _laugh_.’

‘Okay, Yurio,’ says Viktor mildly from behind them, which makes Yuuri frown and turn his head — Viktor rarely says, or does, anything mild. Viktor’s expression is unreadable. He picks up his own bottle of mineral water and leans down to press a kiss to the top of Yuuri’s head, even though Yuuri’s got to be dripping with sweat and disgusting.

They walk home together in the pale St. Petersburg sunset. Yuuri keeps his eyes on his feet, the pavement crunching a little beneath his shoes. He wonders. He worries. He thinks about asking Viktor: _how do you do this? How do you… keep going, see people and the way they see you, talk to people? Why do you let people look up to you? And_ how _?_

But words have never been Yuuri’s strong suit. They haven’t made a habit of sitting down earnestly and _talking_ about what’s bothering them, since Yuuri only recently found out (from Lilia) about the bullshit Viktor pulled just before Yurio’s GPF free skate. Unlike Yuuri himself, Yurio actually allowed that tactic to work. He’s still a little bit angry about it. This is Yuuri’s own fault. He set them up to communicate in metaphors, in sweeping gestures that fight to break through the barriers of Yuuri’s own anxiety, and Viktor just rolled with it. He learned to speak Yuuri’s personal language although Yuuri never left him the luxury of a dictionary.

Yuuri didn’t miss out on a gold medal at the Grand Prix Final for Viktor to injure himself trying to get back on top form.

Yuuri ducks his face into the safety of his coat collar, footsteps echoing on the icy pavement. His cheeks feel very hot. He has to remind himself that this is Viktor — Viktor, who fills people’s expectations to the brimming limit and then goes over them. Viktor who wears shades indoors at night sometimes because he _has_ to, who has turned being a celebrity into a fine art. Yuuri is old enough to remember the vague, never-quite-confirmed college rumours on message boards ( _brought home a guy, he fucked my roommate instead. to be fair, have you_ seen _my roommate_ —). Old enough for his lips to have twitched unwittingly into a smile and his heart to swoop at Viktor messing with the media — ‘Mr Nikiforov, what do you have to say about the man who claims to have taken you home at a bar in London?’ ‘Zhenya, is that you? My pleasure!’ There is no Zhenya. Mila wants Yuuri to teach her pole-dancing. (‘We haven’t got a pole,’ he protested. In determined tones that struck fear into Yuuri’s heart, while Georgi nodded his support in the background, she responded: ‘ _I will find one._ ’) Yuuri’s not qualified to teach. He isn’t even sure he’s qualified to pole-dance, since he mostly learned that in after-class club meetups, surrounded by dance majors who cheerfully assumed he was one of them until Phichit assured them he wasn’t.

In fact, Yuuri isn’t qualified to deal with any of this.

* * *

‘You have got to stop coming to me with these fucking questions,’ Yurio groans, even though he’s the one who brings this up as they sit at a corner table of a little cosy restaurant. ‘When I’m busy with my _own_ relationship problems, where are you going to go, huh?’

‘Who are you dating?’ says Yuuri.

Yurio colours. ‘No one, ever, for the rest of my life.’ He points at Yuuri’s face. ‘That’s your fault too.’

‘Whoever it will be, I hope they’re nice,’ Yuuri murmurs. He lowers his head and takes a sip from his water glass.

Yurio slams his palms down on the tablecloth, making the cutlery jump. Yuuri glances sideways at the startled waitress and mouths a quick _prostite_ to her. ‘We’re talking about you! Listen, moron, there is literally nothing you could do to drive away that stupid ass. The only one standing in your way is yourself. What the fuck have you been doing for twenty-four years? I have achieved far more than you, and I haven’t even hit puberty yet, which, by the way, is a _bitch_ —’

Yuuri nods his agreement and lets himself sink. It bothers him how Yurio and Viktor don’t seem very fond of each other. He wishes they were.

He waits patiently for Yurio to finish his tirade (well-structured, brutal but effective, three points and a conclusion. Could write some pretty badass papers, if Yurio decides to go to college) and says: ‘If he wants to retire, I’ll support him. If he decides to keep on skating for as long as he can, I’ll support him too. But I’m not. I’m not…’ Yuuri spreads out his hands. ‘— good at being warm. That’s been Viktor’s thing. I’m not used to, to,’ he closes his eyes, useless and stupid and _selfish_ , ‘to giving.’

Yurio works very hard to swallow his almost-visible _if Vitya’s the better one, you guys are fucked_ , and demands, ‘Have you fucking tried?’

* * *

Yuuri tries.

Viktor, strong and dangerously beautiful and almost an entire season out of practice, fumbles the landing of a quad lutz at the Russian Nationals. He still medals, of course. He’s still wonderful. He’s _Viktor_. Yuuri is proud, and — watching the YouTube videos while he’s in Japan for his own Nationals — more than a little bit shocked.

He’s seen Viktor fall in practice countless times. Viktor’s fallen _on top_ of Yuuri while they were practising their exhibition skate, which… you know, which is fine. This is fine. Yuuri can’t remember the last time he saw Viktor fall in competition.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks carefully, combing his fingers through Viktor’s hair as Viktor dozes on his shoulder, curled together in the backseat of the taxi home from the airport.

Viktor opens his eyes and gazes up at Yuuri through his pale lashes — sleepy, utterly content. He looks like a dream. ‘I’m okay.’ He laces his fingers with Yuuri’s, tucking his face back into the dip of Yuuri’s neck with a sigh. His smile is magazine-perfect. Yuuri hasn’t seen that fake smile in almost eight months. Yuuri wants to cry.

Back at their home rink they slide into practice with a new tautness in their limbs. Yuuri hasn’t failed his first test of Viktor’s coaching prowess. He _hasn’t_. He’s got the advantage of training alongside his only real competition, at any rate. Yuuri falls, Viktor falls, Yurio sprains his ankle on an unlucky landing and has to sit out practice, scowling, for an entire week. Viktor can nail a textbook quad flip in his sleep but occasionally — in the second half of his program — the other jumps elude him. The second time this happens Yuuri bites back his instinctive _I guess you fell for me_ , because Yuuri’s sense of humour is stone-hearted and wholly inappropriate.

Viktor and Yurio both look like they saw it sitting on the tip of Yuuri’s tongue anyway.

In the locker room after they’re done for the day, Yuuri grimaces to find Mila and Georgi and Yurio all huddled around one of their phones, watching his godforsaken 2013 exhibition skate from the Japanese Nationals. He feels lighter and (somehow simultaneously) less fragile than usual, since Mila and Viktor both enjoy picking up their respective Yuris. Sometimes Yuuri’ll be in the kitchen for dinner, minding his own business, when Viktor walks by and cheerfully lifts him by the waist to help him reach the cupboard over the stove.

‘I can get it by myself, Viktor,’ Yuuri splutters. Across the room, Yurio looks vindicated.

Yuuri’s English vocabulary suddenly feels very limited. He sits down on the bench beside the lockers, frustrated with himself. He didn’t spend five years studying in Detroit for this.

‘Oh, nice,’ Mila breathes as video-Yuuri jerks his chin up challengingly and runs his tongue over his lips at the gala audience, sweeping past the barrier over the dirty, velvet-rubbing guitar beat. Although Yuuri’s _not_ looking over there, he can tell which point they’re at from the way the audience goes up in cheers. That entire program was shamelessly exuberant and Yuuri’s not sure what Celestino saw in his twenty-year-old self that made him think Yuuri could pull it off.

Georgi bobs his head in approval. ‘Yes,’ he agrees. ‘Very… impassioned,’ which is the highest praise from Georgi one can get. Next to him, Yurio’s ears are turning very pink.

‘Has Vitya seen this?’ Mila calls over her shoulder towards Yuuri.

‘Viktor doesn’t need to see it!’

‘I’ve watched that maybe nine times since the 2015 GPF,’ says Viktor, coming up behind them. ‘Dinner, Yuuri?’

They eat together in what Yurio not-so-mockingly calls fiancé time two or three days a week, instead of taking their meals with the rest of the skaters. It doesn’t matter how long and tiring practice has been that day, or what kind of temper Yakov’s been in; Viktor’s smile will always warm with delight when their food arrives, and the phone will slide out to snap a picture of the dish (frequently featuring Yuuri as well) for Instagram. Yuuri leans his cheek in his hand, watching Viktor go through these tiny routines. He’s as much in love as he’s ever been.

‘Viktor,’ he starts, tentative, over the second course. Viktor’s gaze flutters to rest on his face, eternally patient and fond. When will Yuuri reach the limit of that patience? ‘What do you like most about skating?’

Viktor pauses. He chuckles. He’s definitely been asked this by journalists multiple times. _Yuuri_ has been asked this by journalists multiple times. Yuuri continues to be confused by the topics he finds on his message boards, like one increasingly agitated thread starting with the post _Does Katsuki Yuuri pluck and fill in his eyebrows or do they just look that good naturally??????_ Phichit, on the other hand, was not at all surprised.

‘What can I say?’ Viktor delicately prods the side of his smoked salmon with a fork. ‘I suppose the first thing that comes to mind is the way it feels, in front of an audience. People’s eyes on me.’

At the World Championships, eighteen-year-old Viktor Nikiforov came up smiling after flubbing a jump, badly, and blew a kiss to the judges. The audience roared. Yuuri doesn’t want to think too long about the day people will stop looking at Viktor and keep their eyes on his successor instead. He wonders whether Viktor does.

‘Me too.’ Yuuri smiles. He’s come so far; so far. ‘You’re a good coach.’

‘Really?’ asks Viktor, eyes softening. Yuuri’s watched him — mostly when they’re trying something new in bed, because Yuuri is _Yuuri_ — deliberating whether to let Yuuri know what Viktor’s tells are, the uncontrollable little tics that give away the fact that he’s faking. Nearly every time, he sees Viktor very obviously decide not to. Just in case he needs to keep that information to himself in the future. ‘I wonder what makes you say that.’

* * *

Yurio calls later that evening, ringtone spilling through the broad curves of the spiral staircase and the small, finely decorated sitting area on the landing. Stretched out on the sofa below, his long legs achingly relaxed, Viktor comes awake.

‘Phone, Makkachin,’ he calls, and Makkachin trots over to the coffee table to retrieve Viktor’s very expensive rose-gold iPhone, carrying it gently in his mouth. Viktor has a phone case of his 2015–16 season’s free skate costume, because Viktor Nikiforov regularly buys his own merchandise. He also buys Yuuri’s merchandise. And puts it up in the most ostentatious places, so that it’s the first thing anybody sees when they walk through the door. Yuuri has stopped trying to explain this to visitors. Anyone close enough to Yuuri and Viktor to come to their home is also savvy enough to know that Viktor’s responsible for the décor.

‘It’s the landline. I’ll get it.’ Yuuri hurries down the stairs to pick up the house phone. His own phone’s lying on the kitchen table, and he notes guiltily that he’s got two missed calls from Yurio. This is what Yuuri gets for keeping his phone on silent. Oops. ‘Hello, Katsuki-Nikiforov household,’ he says into the phone, and tries to ignore the way Viktor’s face lights up from all the way across the living room. ‘Who’s speaking?’

‘I’m at the sports store in Kirovsky District,’ comes Yurio’s voice over the line. Yuuri rakes up the hem of his T-shirt to scritch at the small of his back. ‘Skate polish? New laces? Sports bag? Hurry up, there’s a queue and I want to get home in time for supper.’

‘Um,’ says Yuuri. ‘I’ll put you on speakerphone. Viktor, do you need anything?’

‘Vitya’s there? Tell him I’m going to kick his ass at Worlds!’

‘He can hear y —’

‘ _Davai_ ,’ yells Viktor.

They had the same lockscreen — a photo some tourist took for them at the fountains of Peterhof — for a while, but Yuuri and Viktor kept picking up each other’s phones by mistake. It doesn’t really matter since they know each other’s passcodes, but it’s inconvenient when one of them’s leaving the house, so Viktor changed his background to a picture of Yuuri and Makkachin sleeping. Yuuri chews on his bottom lip for a moment. He could get used to this.

* * *

The minor breakdown is a long time in coming. Honestly, Yuuri’s relieved to get it over and done with. He needs to hit his quota for the year, because any other scenario might upset the cosmic balance of the universe and he’d never recover.

Viktor’s away, performing at an ice show. Viktor loves ice shows and Yuuri _loves_ ice shows, so this really doesn’t have anything to do with the way oxygen catches in Yuuri’s lungs and temporarily kills his brain-to-external-appearances filter. Damn. He’s been hoping Yakov wouldn’t have to see this.

‘Yuuri? Yuuri!’ Yurio is pulling at his sleeve. ‘Look at me, dammit!’

‘I am,’ Yuuri gasps, forehead on his knees. ‘I am.’ He puts his fingers at his temples to steady them, presses hard. He is blurrily aware of Yakov’s hand gripping his shoulder, and he raises his head after a few minutes, cautiously attempting to dislodge it. Yakov lets him go.

They’re sitting by the side of the rink. Yuuri notices in confusion that he is still wearing his skates. Somebody’s Team Russia jacket is draped over his shoulders. It’s too large to be Mila’s, but it might be Georgi’s. He clutches at the edges of it, careful not to damage the heavy outlines of the raised embroidery.

Yuuri can never pinpoint a specific incident that triggers this. It’s nothing in particular, and everything all at once — the harsh lines etched deep into Yakov’s face, the way Lilia crosses her arms, his failure to perfect the series of increasingly demanding jumps in his programs and the weight of all that affection on his chest.

Yakov says above him: ‘Why are you not on medication, Yura?’

‘I don’t need it,’ Yuuri whispers. ‘I don’t.’ He closes his eyes.

‘Who said that? A doctor or you?’ Yurio snaps, voice rising sharply. He smacks Yuuri’s shoulder, probably harder than he meant to. ‘What’s the matter with you, katsudon? Otabek could kick your ass like this, and he didn’t even make bronze.’

‘You can stop putting me down now,’ says Yuuri mildly. He wipes his eyes on his sleeve. ‘I do plenty of that myself — you don’t need to add on to it.’

Yurio’s eyes narrow. He bites his lip, hard. ‘Fine.’

* * *

‘Yakov told me,’ Viktor says over the phone. He sounds concerned. Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut. _My name is Katsuki Yuuri. I’m Japan’s ace skater. I’m twenty-four._ ‘Do you need me to come home?’

Yuuri thinks about it. Seated on the floor of their bedroom with his legs drawn up against himself ( _heated floors!_ repeats a small voice inside Yuuri), he leans on the side of the bed. ‘No. It’s okay.’

‘Are you sure?’

Yuuri feels his mouth curve. ‘Sure.’

‘Okay.’ Viktor inhales. ‘There’re a few videos of me skating. They’re up already, I think.’

‘I know. I watched them.’ He rubs his forehead. ‘You were beautiful.’

Viktor makes a small, butterfly-frail sound. ‘Thank you.’

‘I need to make dinner,’ Yuuri murmurs, his stomach growling. ‘Okay?’

‘Yes, all right.’ He can hear the smile in Viktor’s voice. ‘Don’t burn down my kitchen.’

‘No, Grandpa Plisetsky cooked for me. I just need to heat that up.’

Viktor laughs. His tone takes on that dark, perfumed note it always gets when he’s talking about Yurio. ‘Tell Yurio he should learn to braid his hair properly.’

‘He says he learned that from watching YouTube tutorials. You should show him yourself when you get back. Lilia does his hair before he skates, in any case.’

‘ _My_ hair was better than Lilia’s,’ replies Viktor, affronted. He quietens. ‘I’ll be home soon. Tomorrow night.’

‘Yes,’ Yuuri says, the ache curling tight between his ribs. Reluctantly he peels himself away from the warmth of the floor and gets to his feet. ‘I’m going to hang up now.’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay. _Ya tebya lyublyu_.’

He presses the end button just as Viktor’s plaintive voice — ‘Yuuri? Yuuri!’ — floats over the line. Yuuri laughs quietly to himself. He’s allowed to have a bit of fun now and then.

* * *

Viktor comes home late into the night, his feet a steady grounding rhythm in the soft darkness of the living room outside. Seated crosslegged on the foot of their double bed, Yuuri drops his 3DS. Makkachin has already leapt from the bed and scampered out of the room to greet Viktor, and Yuuri can hear Viktor’s low laughter as he rolls Makkachin playfully over and tugs at Makkachin’s ears.

‘Welcome back,’ Yuuri says, resuming his game. He glances up after a few seconds though, because he’s not completely cruel, and smiles. ‘There’s food in the fridge.’

‘You’ll stay in the living room if you’re going to play video games until two a.m., I need to _sleep_ ,’ Viktor protests. Crouched in the doorway, he raises his head from Makkachin’s fur and sighs. ‘These are not at all the kind of things I used to say in the bedroom.’

‘What kind of things did you use to say in the bedroom?’

Viktor looks away for a moment, thinking. ‘Things like, “Where was this lower body strength earlier when you tried to land that quad sal?”’

Yuuri sits up fully in bed and stares at him.

‘I’m not proud.’

Yuuri groans. ‘Come over here and I’ll kiss you.’

‘Okay,’ Viktor responds, happy to be told what to do. He leans against the doorframe and peels off his Armani socks.

Makkachin lopes after him as Viktor climbs onto the bed and leans over Yuuri to kiss Yuuri’s mouth, and then his cheek, and the hollow of his throat. Viktor hums in satisfaction. Yuuri squirms underneath him, partly for show; he likes being pinned by Viktor’s weight. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Not really, no,’ Viktor admits. He nuzzles into the soft part of Yuuri’s shoulder, and Yuuri allows Viktor to kiss his eyelids. ‘I think… a little bit, no.’

‘Okay,’ Yuuri says. He arches up and shifts his knees to cradle Viktor.

Viktor’s tongue darts out to tease at the corner of Yuuri’s lips. ‘And you?’

‘A little bit no,’ Yuuri sighs. He buries his face in Viktor’s warm unwashed train scent. ‘But I love you.’

‘Okay, Yuuri,’ says Viktor, breathing in. He settles down comfortably on top of Yuuri. ‘Okay.’

It’s a start.

**Author's Note:**

> [yuuri's exhibition skate](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pta-gf6JaHQ)  
>  bonus: [the russian skater fam's drinking adventures](http://mad-magyar.tumblr.com/post/129324478119)


End file.
